


Mania’s Thin Line Between Love and Hate

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [28]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Abduction, Attempted Murder, Bombs, Corpses, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Injuries, Obsession, Other, Serial Killers, Stalking, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4508385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He’s not at the hospital?” He asked, confused and angry, “And you don’t know where he’s at?” <br/>She was quiet for a few seconds, before she said something that sent Greg sprinting for the SUVs—calling his team, yelling at Winnie to get any information, and clenching his fists until he thought they’d bleed. <br/>“We have reason to believe that Mr. Scarlatti was abducted by a man posing as a nurse.” </p>
<p>*Sequel to Where Is He*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mania’s Thin Line Between Love and Hate

**Author's Note:**

> So here's the sequel to "Where Is He?" per request. I hope you enjoy, and that the plot makes sense.   
> Thank you so much for the feedback and continued support of my writing. Thank you, thank you, thank you. :) If you want to read more, then please continue to give your love and feed the author. :D  
> Anyway, have a great day!
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint, nor the characters. I do not make a profit from my writing. However, it's still my writing so please don't repost anywhere. Thanks!

After nearly a week, Spike was finally seeing the irrational behavior of his lovers slipping away—they didn’t nearly smother him every night, didn’t try and keep him in the command truck running searches they didn’t need ( _and Spike had nipped that one in the bud, giving his lovers the most disappointed look he could muster and threatening to ask for a transfer to another team if they couldn’t treat him as an equal or place aside their love life when it came to work.)_ and they were, in general, simply calming down.

But the serial killer, his victims all matching Spike’s profile, was still on the loose so the bomb tech wasn’t sure how much of that calmness was real and what was a front.

Pushing his thoughts aside, Spike eyed the hallway as he walked towards where the bomb was supposed to be.

But he stopped dead in his tracks, blood running cold, as he rounded another corner—and he bit his lip before speaking into the earpiece.

“There’s a body down here.”

If body was even the proper term—this one had limbs twisted out of their sockets, skin peeled away in areas, but there wasn’t the gore that had apparently been present at the other scene. Small miracles, he supposed. But it looked like him, and that made his stomach drop with some sort of twisted worry.

Until Spike saw the small timer wedged between the corpse’s teeth—the numbers clicking down from six, and Spike took off running with a new type of fear blooming in his belly.

He didn’t even manage to get out a word edgewise before the device went off, and a searing agony sliced up the area from below his hip to just above it as his back impacted with the wall.

“No harm!” He shouted as soon as he caught his breath, ribs protesting, but a check of his body—as he lifted himself off the ground—made him change his mind. “Uh… never mind. I’ve got a laceration on my side. I think I might need stitches.”

 

* * *

 

The hospital staff barely put up with the trio’s behavior, and Spike was about ready to kick them out. Ed and Sam were hovering, watching every motion of the nurses and doctors, and Greg was doing nothing to keep them under control. They were asking far too many questions— _what’s that? What’s that for? What are the risks? Are you sure he’ll be okay?_ —and fishing for answers they didn’t need.

“It’s not that bad,” Spike grated out, “I’ll be out by tonight, and if you three keep acting like this then I’m going to my house.”

He just got an amused look from his three lovers.

“I’m serious!” Spike said forcefully, and he glared when Ed rolled his eyes and Greg’s hand continued to run large circles over his lower leg.

“Hold that thought,” Greg mumbled when his phone went off, and his three lovers waited while the negotiator listened to whoever was on the other side of the line. His face went ridged, jaw tensed, and Spike started to push himself up into a sitting position but Ed pushed him back down—not taking his eyes off Greg.

“There’s an emergency at the Richardson Law Firm, Team One’s on call.”

None of the men looked pleased at that, but they shared a look before standing up—putting on their jackets and giving Spike a kiss—both a goodbye and an apology.

“We’ll be back as soon as we can, okay?”

Spike could only nod.

 

* * *

 

The security officer, patrolling the floor of Spike’s room, nodded as a male nurse passed by him and walked determinedly into the bomb tech’s room—a chart held in his hand as he read.

The man, looking comfortable in his blue scrubs, didn’t look around or try and hide his actions as he pulled out a vial and needle from his pocket and slowly filled up the glass syringe with clear liquid from the container.

Spike, napping silently, didn’t even wake as the needle delicately slipped under his skin and just as easily was removed.

With a quick flick of his wrist, the nurse brought up the bed railings and unlocked the wheels, pushing the bed out the doors and down the hallway—passing the security guard who raised an eyebrow and stepped into his path.

“Where are you taking him?” The officer asked, recognizing the patient he’d been told to keep a special eye on.

“Mr. Scarlatti’s getting a cat scan to make sure that the impact on his ribs hasn’t caused any fractures.” The nurse told him with a smile, so the security guard nodded and moved out of the way—letting the other man pass with another nod.

But the nurse took a sharp turn—just out of sight of the guard—towards the freight elevator and, in his mind the path was laid clear, towards the van he had near the back exit.

 

* * *

 

Leaning against the mobile command station, Greg watched as the last of the police cars pulled away—the gang members locked away in the back seats. Sam and Ed were walking out from behind a building, their rifles swinging in their cases at their sides, and all three were ready to just debrief and get back to the hospital.

But the universe had different plans.

Greg’s phone went off from where it was tucked in his vest, and he frowned at the number—it was the hospital.

“Hello, this is Greg Parker,” He answered, and a nervous woman gave her own greeting before continuing.

“Hello, Mr. Parker, this is Lillian Groves—dean of medicine at Toronto General. I was calling to inquire about one of our patients—Michelangelo Scarlatti.”

“What about him?” The negotiator snapped, and Ed and Sam crowded around him as they rushed forward—leaning close so they could hear; their faces marred by worry and the beginnings of terror.

“I was wondering if you’d had contact with him in the last five hours.”

“He’s not at the hospital?” He asked, confused and angry, “And you don’t know where he’s at?”

She was quiet for a few seconds, before she said something that sent Greg sprinting for the SUVs—calling his team, yelling at Winnie to get any information, and clenching his fists until he thought they’d bleed.

“We have reason to believe that Mr. Scarlatti was abducted by a man posing as a nurse.”

Ed gripped the negotiator’s shoulder, and Sam’s bicep, with a shaky grip.

“We’ll find him.”

No one wanted to think about it would mean if the team leader was wrong.

 

* * *

 

Consciousness was slipping past his defenses, and Spike blinked awake with a groan. Cold was seeping past the thin barrier separating his skin from the ground, and it took a moment but the bomb tech realized that he was still in the frail hospital gown and his boxers. And he was pressed against an unyielding cement floor, something heavy and ridged and _frigid_ on his ankle.

There’s only a static-y light hanging from its cord in the middle of the room, and the yellow light barely illuminated the large space; it was just enough for Spike to see—to realize, to observe. It’s all gray—the walls, the floor, even the naked support beams. Except for what’s on those walls—that’s a blur of color and motion.

Photos were lined up like trophies, carefully hung so they sat straight. Even though his vision is still recovering, Spike could see himself in nearly every one of the pictures. Ed, Greg, and Sam were there too—but the focus was always on the bomb tech, and that fact alone made the brunette’s stomach drop and his skin prickle even further. It only got worse.

There were photos of what Spike assumed were past victims, both before demise and after, and their resemblance to him was no coincidence. Same eye color, same hair style, and same skin tone. All mutilated and ripped apart, their jaws left unhinged in a scream as other photos showed their mouths open with grins and laughs.

His photo—his _photos_ were the only ones that didn’t have a dilapidated, bled-dry companion.

Then there were images that he’d had on the phone he’d lost—photos that had been _only_ on that device.

Maybe his phone hadn’t been lost, in actuality.

“You’re awake,” A male voice spoke casually, and Spike pressed himself against the wall—noticing the shackle clinging to his leg—and slowly searched the room for a weapon as his captor descended the stairs, a large kitchen knife and a full syringe in his hands. “I was afraid I had given you too much.”

“They’ll find me,” Spike eyed the knife and needle, “How long have I been out?”

“A couple hours,” The man replied, and Spike felt hope and fear tussle in his stomach—why hadn’t they found him, and if it had been so long then they had to be close… right? “And don’t worry, I won’t let them find you. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Keep me safe from what?” Spike asked, and the man paused on the last step before watching his captive audience with a confused look.

“Your team—your lovers,” the man said passionately, waving his arms and hands to try and get his point across, “I have to keep you safe from them!”

“Why?”

The man’s stance tensed, like he didn’t understand why Spike didn’t know his point of view, but he didn’t leave his place on the stair as he gritted his teeth and wove agitation into his actions.

“They don’t keep you safe—they don’t protect you!”

Opening his mouth to speak, to refute, to try and worm himself out of the situation—but the man cut him off before he could get a word out.

“Do you know how many times they’ve left you unprotected?” The man seethed, and Spike kept his mouth shut when he noticed the anger seeping into his captor’s expression, “I could have killed you a _thousand times over_ ,” he hissed, “Anyone could have killed you!”

“Then why didn’t you kill me when you had all those chances?” Spike asked, toying with the cuff on his ankle to see if there were any weak spots. “Why did you just kill people who looked like me?”

“Haven’t you heard anything I’ve been saying?!” The man shouted, the darkness of his hair glinting like the shine of crow feathers in the gloom of the basement, “I’m trying to protect you! Those people—they were dangerous to you! What if someone wanted them hurt, and you got killed instead because they thought you were someone else?!”

“Why am I so special, then?” The bomb tech asked, wanting to curse when the stiff metal below his fingertips gave no sign of loosening its grip.

A small smile broke the sheet of anger splayed over the serial killer’s face, and something close to nostalgia glistened like tears in his eyes. His grip on the weapons loosened just a little, and his knuckles regained their color from where he’d been gripping the knife’s hilt. The line of his jaw, soft yet recognizable, tensed and relaxed like he was practicing the words he was going to say—like he was writing his script, but when he spoke there was no practiced finesse.

“Because you’re so much like him—and the others, they were weak; nothing like him.”

“Like who?” The brunette inquired, but a sharp stab at his side sent his hand skittering across the plane of his stomach and to the familiar wound on his upper hip—the bandage was gone, and the skin was inflamed and hot. It sent a pang of nausea to his stomach.

“Tommy,” the serial killer said sadly, “you’re so much like him…” The man trailed off, but continued on after a few seconds, “He was always so brave, and he had these big brown eyes and short, soft hair… I always tried to protect him—I always protected him—but he didn’t listen to me…”

“So you killed him?” Spike questioned hesitantly, but the man shook his head with hatred and stepped closer—the bomb tech’s heart pounded faster.

“No!” The man spat, “I just wanted to scare him a bit—make it so he would listen to me and let me protect him… I just wanted him to be safe…. But the bleeding wouldn’t stop…and then he wouldn’t wake up…”

Spike wanted to close his eyes, wanted to curl into a ball as a headache pounded behind his eyes and his body heated up with fever, but he didn’t—he couldn’t let this man be out of his line of sight. He couldn’t risk that.

“I’m not him,” Spike whispered, “I can’t be the person you lost.”

“It’s okay, I know you won’t understand why I have to do this,” The man smiled, but it didn’t light up his gaze—which was dull, determined, and final. “I’ll protect you.”

With a motion that tied Spike’s stomach in knots, the man put the needle down on the ground and produced a piece of plastic—a zip tie—from one of the pockets of his pants. Even with the infection pumping through his body, Spike had never felt as focused and clear in his life as the armed serial killer walked closer.

“I promise, it’ll only hurt for a little bit. And then no one can hurt you again, and you’ll be safe. It’ll be okay, you’ll see.”

Walking closer, the man came to a stop before the bomb tech and held out a hand.

“Give me your hands,” The man urged, “I’m trying to keep you safe, alright?”

“Killing me is not keeping me safe!” Spike shouted, “You’re the only danger to me!”

Rage filled the man’s eyes, and his empty hand went to grab at Spike but the bomb tech sprung up on a bent leg and cocked him in the jaw—putting every ounce of energy he had in his body into the blow. The short chain attached to his leg made the limb pull painfully, but it gave him just enough length to grapple a hold onto the man’s shoulder and pull him close.

Thank God for Ed insisting on training them all—nearly to death—in hand-to-hand combat.

Pulling his captor into his chest, and getting a blade drug across the skin of his forearm, Spike got one arm looped around the man’s neck and his legs curled constricting-ly around his narrow hips. The murder flailed, and the sickness making Spike’s head spin didn’t help as he fought to keep his hold. His other hand was wrapped around the killer’s wrist, keeping the bloody knife in his hand away, and his muscles protested as his elbow locked.

The man gurgled for air, and Spike wrapped his arm tighter and dodged as the man tried to swing his head back and bash his nose in. Slowly, the man’s movements slowed down and became sluggish—and Spike waited for the man to go limp before tentatively letting his captor’s throat go. He could still hear the air entering the serial killer’s lungs, and the pulse below the flesh was lethargic and dawdling.

With quick hands, Spike frisked his captor and tightened the zip tie around the man’s wrists—kicking the knife away while grinning at the key he’d just pulled out of the man’s pocket.

The shackle attached to his limb came off easy, and the brunette snapped it around his would-be killer’s own ankle before stumbling off the floor and towards the stairs—keeping an eye out for trip wires or any explosives.

It was a small house, normal looking, but Spike had never been so grateful to see a door before. His side was sore with the raging infection, and the wound had only gotten warmer in the struggle, and a quick look at his arm made him wince. Nearly from elbow to wrist, a large gash was still dribbling blood over his skin and onto the ground.

He wanted to fall to his knees when he walked onto the porch.

Police cars were everywhere, their lights on but sirens kept silent, and the easily recognizable SRU SUVs were just pulling up.

A couple uniformed officers had started to jog over, but they were easily beaten by a blur of blonde as Sam leapt from the passenger seat and sprinted like his life depended on it. The SUV slammed on its brakes, and Ed fumbled his way out of the driver’s seat—fighting with the seatbelt—and followed in Sam’s path as Greg climbed out of another van.

Arms wrapped around his torso so tight that the pain overrode the ache of his torn side, but Spike didn’t say anything.

“ _You’re okay, you’re okay_ ,” The younger sniper repeated, whispering in his younger lover’s ear, but before Spike could even relax in the embrace the blonde had jumped back—eyes guilty and panicked. “You’re hurt. Where are you hurt?”

“My stitches tore, and I think it’s infected,” Spike told them, and immediately Sam grasped the brunette under his shoulders and knees and pulled him up into his arms. “Put me down!”

“Just let me hold you, okay?” Sam whispered as quietly as he could, “Just… let me have this.”

The bomb tech begrudgingly allowed him to.

Ed and Greg jumped up the steps, crowding their two younger lovers, and Spike held out his injured arm as the pain started to override the shock. His body was shaking with it; trembling with the aches.

“I think I might need more stitches.” He said woozily, feeling too hot in his skin, and the world around him was starting to blur as Greg’s hands clamped down over the split skin. His head was too heavy for his neck, and it swayed dangerously. Ed was motioning over the paramedics, but he had one hand planted firmly in Spike’s hair—rubbing small, reassuring circles.

“Spike? _SPIKE!_ ”

The bomb tech blinked slowly, wincing at the pain and trying to pull his arm free of Greg’s agonizing grasp, but Sam was holding him too firmly to squirm.

“He’s tied up... in the basement,” Spike slurred, and used his free hand to poke Sam in the chest, “Don’t… kill him.”

Then he went limp, head dropping onto the younger sniper’s chest, deaf to the barks of his name.

 

* * *

 

Waking up for a second time, Spike’s gaze roved over the familiar hospital room as his thoughts started to sort themselves out.

“They got the infection under control,”

The bomb tech craned his head, and saw Greg walking over from where he’d been standing by the window and the negotiator lowered himself into the feeble chair that was positioned next to the hospital bed with a huff.

“Where are Sam and Ed?” The brunette asked after a short kiss, and the calloused hand of his lover wrapped around his own.

“They went downstairs to go try and find some ‘good coffee’,” Greg rolled his eyes, handing over a cup of water when he saw where Spike’s longing gaze was directed.

“And you got left behind to play security guard?” Spike laughed, squeezing his hand around Greg’s comfortingly and lovingly.

“What, you thought we’d let you be alone after what happened?” Greg shook his head, leaning back in his chair, “You thought Eddie and Sam were bad before? Wait until you see them now.”

Spike groaned, letting his head flop against the pillow, while his older lover let out a low chuckle and took the water back from him.

“I’m not even going to be able to walk around, am I? Someone’s just going to be carrying me around,” Spike ranted, and Greg just looked amused, “Please tell me that you’re at least going to get some sleep tonight.” The bomb tech begged, but Greg didn’t respond and looked away.

“ _Greg_!” the bomb tech whined, pouting, but the negotiator just smiled back and kept a firm grip on his younger lover’s hand.

“Ed and Sam aren’t the only ones who are overprotective,” Spike grouched, but he just got a kiss on his brow for his efforts.

Then their two others lovers returned, balancing coffee cups in their hands, and Spike was too busy with hugs and kisses and eye rolling at their clinging behavior to speak.

He wanted to tell them to calm down, that he didn’t need to be watched like hawk—that the man who had been targeting him was behind bars, that he wasn’t in danger—but it seemed like a lost cause so the brunette relaxed in the bed and put up with their behavior.

His lovers were insane and overprotective, but he loved them—for that, and more.

He, simply, just loved them.

_And he knew they did too._


End file.
